The Usual and the Unexpected
by Insomniac37
Summary: The King of the Brooklyn Newsies is used to getting what he wants, but on that night he was unprepared for the unexpected. Rated for language and violence. Please review and let me know what you think!
1. Hi

Hello

Just some random insomniac here.

I'm sorry to those of you who are here for an update.

There isn't one :(

Yet.

I'm getting close to posting a sequel to 'The Usual and the Unexpected'. I just need to proof it a bit more and decide if I like it the way it is or if I should turn it backward. (I know that makes no fucking sense to you. Sorry. Soon. I swear.)

Anyways, in the whole process of writing the sequel, I re-read this story a couple of times and made a few changes. If you've already read it, I didn't change anything major, don't worry. I just fixed some mistakes (typos and grammar), completed some thoughts and made it a little easier to read.

Also, I took out the A.N.'s at the top of each page. I felt like they were annoying and disruptive. So here they all are now in summation.

_'Hi! I'm Insomniac37. I make lots of A.N.'s that I think are cute and witty. _

_Richmond is a county of New York City and it's just downriver of Brooklyn._

_I love Mitts, I really do._

_Ralph was a real person, born in 1879. Amy is fictional just like all of the events set forth here._

_Also, I don't own Newsies. Not now, not ever. Thanks for bearing with me. Please review. Bye.'_

Be advised the next time you see something new from Insomniac37 it'll be the sequel! I'm getting excited too. I'll see you at chapter 22.


	2. The King of the Brooklyn Newsies

_Chapter 1 – The King of the Brooklyn Newsies_

Spot Conlon walked with a swagger that was all his own. The King of the Brooklyn Newsies was a strong, charismatic somewhat arrogant seventeen year old, with good reason. He was good at his job, and damn proud of it. He could sell papers, that was for sure. He was the only one of the Brooklyn Newsies that regularly bought and sold a hundred papers a day. He carried them with him now. 98 over his left shoulder, 2 in his right hand.

On top of that he ran of tight crew of forty-some newsies, thieves and scouts. They all looked up to him as their fearless leader and role-model. He passed several of his newsies as he walked, all '_Carryin' tha Banner_', hawking improved headlines, as he had so carefully taught them. He called out greetings to some of them as he passed, nodded curtly to others. They all looked up and greeted him with respect bordering on reverence. He knew that at any moment, should he feel like selling in this particular spot, he could, and the other newsies would simply pick up and move somewhere else, not daring to encroach on his selling grounds.

Instead, he continued walking, admiring his kingdom. Ahead, in the street there was a small commotion as a young boy knocked into a handsomely dressed man. The boy yelped an apology and trotted away in Spot's general direction. A few seconds later, the man set off an uproar. The boy had apparently, picked the man's pocket, and the man had already discovered his thievery.

Spot altered his course only slightly and turned his back on the scene, walking backwards, apparently very interested in a pretty girl who had just walked past him. He wolf whistled at her and she turned to throw him a disgusted look over her shoulder, saw his devastating gray-blue eyes and instead, merely blushed and hurried on. Just then, there was an almighty crash as the young thief barreled into the back of him. Spot let go of some of the papers he was carrying and they burst open and fluttered all around him to the ground. The thief was knocked flat on his backside and Spot whipped around to holler at the boy.

"Watch where youse goin'!" He yelled loudly and then much more quietly, so that no one but the boy heard him, "Ya careless, Bit."

The boy cracked a momentary grin, but it was gone in a flash. He yelped another apology and took off running again. As Spot bent to retrieve his fallen newspapers he heard the whistles of the bulls and running footsteps after the boy. '_Let them catch him_.' He thought wryly to himself. They would not find anything. Indeed, the boy was careful to stay in their sights the whole time and when the bulls finally caught up to him (the boy had to slow down and pretend to be winded), they found nothing in his hands or his pockets.

That was because Spot himself had the man's wallet. He ducked down a narrow alley, extracted the money from inside it, pocketed it, and tossed the wallet behind a dumpster. He shook his head a little as he re-emerged on the crowded street. He was disappointed the boy had been found out and he was going to have to have a talk with him about his carelessness, but at the same time Spot was not above saving one of his own from a sticky situation. Better to handle it himself, but keep the kid out of the Refuge.

He continued down the street, not having a particular idea of where he was going, but when he finally found a street corner devoid of his own newsies he set his papers down and began hawking headlines himself. People who passed occasionally stopped to buy a paper from him. Mostly young women who practically tripped over themselves to press pennies and nickels into his hand and stare into his storm gray eyes for a moment. He was handsome, he knew it, and he played them like harps, flashing smiles and giving little bows. Before he knew it his stack of papers had vanished.

He roamed the streets all afternoon and into the evening. He passed a few hours in the park, another few in a rowdy pub, sometimes with, sometimes without the company of some of his fellow newsies. He hardly knew what he was doing, his feet carrying him to all his usual hang-outs by themselves.

It was the pitch black dark of near midnight when he hit the streets again. Spot strolled along easily. He was not afraid of the dark. Nor was he afraid of the Brooklyn streets. They were his streets after all. He had walked them a million times. Tonight was different though. He could feel it in his gut. Something was going to happen and he was terrified and thrilled at the same time. He welcomed the excitement and adventure of it. His feet found their own way, for his mind was not consciously directing them.

When he recognized the sights he smirked a little to himself. The day had been warm, but the night air was cool and the fog had rolled in heavily over the bridge. It looked like a postcard, he could just make out the metal cables of the bridge through the haze. His feet walked steadily up the bridge, though he could barely see ten feet in front of him. He heard, rather than saw, the men at the middle of the bridge. His sharp ears picked up at least three distinct voices, one of which seemed to be panicked and high strung. Perfect, he thought. He did love a good fight. As he approached he heard them more clearly.

"Please. I have a wife and son." The higher, panicked voice was saying.

"Don't you worry. We'll be payin' them a visit too." Said a low, deadly voice.

There was a scream, longer and louder than Spot had ever heard. It seemed to go on forever and get almost softer until there was a distant splash. Realization at what had just happened not ten feet from him washed over Spot and he halted in his tracks, praying the fog was not about to clear. This was not the kind of fight he had planned on. Bar fights, street fights, sure, he did that, but murder? He wanted nothing to do with it. The men seemed to materialize out of nowhere, like ghosts. To Spot's dismay he realized there were not two, but four. He eyed them warily as they seemed to circle like cats on the prowl.

"What have we here?" One of them said with a hint of a grin in his voice. Spot could not be sure which one of them had spoken.

"Him too. No witnesses." Said another, with a command in his voice that made Spot think he must be their leader.

Spot's eyes opened wide. He knew he stood little chance against four men, but he was not about to take it laying down and besides, he was a good fighter. One of the men charged. Spot was ready, all his muscles tautened. His brain seemed miraculously clear. It was too easy.

The man swung and Spot saw it as if in slow motion. He ducked and, drawing his gold-topped cane as if unsheathing a sword, he swung it and landed it with force into the man's throat. The man choked and doubled over. Spot's left elbow delivered a devastating blow to the back of his head and he fell to the ground, face first.

A second man, this one with a knife, made a lunge at Spot's own throat. He saw it, only barely. With his other elbow he tipped the knife out of the way of his face. It passed so close to Spot's eyes that he saw it's blade was already streaked with blood. He felt a tearing as the knife slid down his forearm and felt his own blood, warm and wet, drip sickly out of the gash, but his mind was disconnected from the pain. The man had grabbed Spot's cane with his free hand and for a moment they struggled, each trying to keep hold of each others weapons. Spot snorted in frustration and he brought a knee up to the man's gut, heard the man grunt as it connected and watched him join his companion on the ground.

The third man had a only his fists, which was lucky as the last man had wrenched Spot's cane from his hand. He lunged forward fiercely with a yell. Spot watched him go, turning his body only slightly so that the impetus of the man's own leap made him fly right past Spot. An elbow to the back of the head knocked this man cold and Spot looked up for his next assailant.

The fourth man laughed, but Spot could not share in his amusement. He drew from his jacket some sort of dagger that he brandished skillfully before throwing himself forward. Spot had no choice but to retreat, without his cane, this man had a range advantage on him. He ducked and wove avoiding the dagger to the best of his abilities.

"It'll be a shame to kill you." He taunted Spot. "You're skilled enough to take out three of my men."

The dagger changed course so abruptly that Spot only had time to block it. He felt it drag across his forearm painfully, but knew it was better than his heart. Spot jumped back several feet and swore under his breath. His adrenaline was running thin. He was losing blood and getting light headed.

"You made one mistake though." The man said and Spot hesitated.

It was enough. Though he jumped back, he was not fast enough and the dagger sliced into the skin of his chest. Spot backed away, clutching at his heart. He could feel the blood flowing freely down his chest and through his fingers. His vision blurred and he blinked rapidly to clear it. His head felt heavy. His reactions were slowing. Was he really going to die here? A sudden, crushing blow to the back of his skull made his vision blur again and his knees buckle. He fell to the ground, face first. A second later and he felt the dagger slice into his shoulder, impaling him to the ground. Spot's jaw clenched tightly, holding back the scream of pain that tried to escape his throat.

"There are five of us." Said a deadly whisper, so close to his ear that he could feel the hot, rank breath. He heard the fifth, unknown man, laugh somewhere above him. His head spun, his vision tunneled and the world resolved itself into blackness.

Hitting the water was what re-awoke him. It was as if he had hit a brick wall. The entire left side of his body was more numb than the worst of belly flops. The water was freezing and his chest and shoulder stung as if they had been torn open. His head ached and his muscles screamed, but he was alive. He was sure of it. For a moment he hung there in the water, having no concept of up or down, his brain protesting the lack of air. He kicked for the surface with everything he had. His head broke the water and he gasped huge lungfuls of air gratefully.

He fought to keep his head above the water. He was so tired. He had to stop and rest. There was a gentle current, but it felt like swimming against a waterfall. His flailing arms touched something solid. He grasped at it, whatever it was, he did not care. He merely pulled himself across it as best he could. He could tell that he was still floating, and he knew he was going to have to get out of the river somehow and soon, but he had to rest. He was exhausted. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. He fought to keep his eyes open. His tired lids felt like lead and they won. His world faded slowly again.


	3. Amy

Chapter 2 - Safe

His head hurt terribly, there was a low ringing in his ears, his shoulder and chest felt like they were on fire and nearly every inch of him felt tender and sore. The ringing in his ears was more of a buzz now. Despite his terrible headache it was not an unwelcome sound. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt heavier than iron weights. His throat felt dry and disused. He swallowed and panted for breath.

He felt something. Incredibly gentle pressure on the back of his head and then something cool and wet bump against his lips. He gulped at the water greedily, soothing his parched throat. His eyes cracked open. The light was too dim to make out much more than shadows. He tried to say something, but found he could not.

"You're safe. I'm Amy."

A pair of bright green eyes swam into focus above him. He felt relief wash over him. A feeling so strong that it temporarily occluded all the pain. He tried to speak, to move, to make some sign of thanks, but all he could manage was a sigh. Even this slight effort had exhausted him again and he felt his eyelids ram shut once more.

"Just sleep." Her voice floated across to him and then the buzzing started again. A buzzing he could now identify as the sound of her humming some unknown song to him. It was a soft comforting sound; a slow, strange, lilting tune.

A smile had twitched his lips. She had seen it. She was sure of it. She was glad to know for sure that he was alive, at last. It had been three days since she had found him on the riverbank. He had been a wet, bloody mess then. In fact, he was still a wet, bloody mess now, but at least he was alive.

She had not known what had caused her to take pity on the wretched thing she had found washed up on the riverbank of one of the many acres of her father's ranch. She knew her father would scoff and call the police, but she also knew they were miles away from anything that might be called civilization and that the poor boy would have died on that shore before any help had even been notified. She also knew her father was very far away at the moment with little control over anything she did.

So she had rigged a sort of stretcher out of a few logs and a blanket, hitched him to the back of her favorite horse and hidden him away in the loft in the barn. The house was out of the question as it was home to servants that might, at any moment, inform her father. The loft was always quiet. Only she would ever come here when she wanted to be alone anyways. Though, she supposed, now she would have to share it.

With a pang of guilt, she wondered why she had done it. Was it out of boredom and loneliness? There was simply nothing to do way out here and no one to be with except her old horse. She shook that thought out of her head. He would have died if it hadn't been for her. Perhaps that was it after all. She wanted to feel needed.

Her father had sent her way out here to be alone. Her mother hadn't cared much where she was. Even the servants here at the house, though charged with her care, never seemed to wonder where she was. Well, she had gotten her wish. Here was someone who had true need of her right now. She stared down at him and wondered for the millionth time where he had gotten such injuries and why he had come floating down the river to her. She sighed as he grunted in his sleep, trying to ease his own breathing. Perhaps she would find out tomorrow.

If he lived that long.


	4. Safe

_Chapter 3 - Amy_

The sunset as it appeared from the Brooklyn Bridge was a sight to behold. The brilliant oranges and pinks strewn about the sky mixed with the height of the bridge and the wind in your face made you feel like you were seeing it from flight.

Spot stood in the very middle of the bridge watching the sunk sink lower unto the horizon, its pale golds and yellows giving way to reds and then greens and blues. He dropped his gaze down at the water which was echoing the sunset in all its magnificence. It's gently rippling water made it look like individual panes of colored glass. Two green panes like green eyes sparkled up at him.

" 'ey Spot. What'chu doin' out hea?"

It was one of his newsies. A boy by the name of Mitts. He was short, like Spot, but with brown hair and wide-set friendly eyes. Mitts was advancing up the bridge toward him. As he came, he seemed to get taller and as the sun set and the light waned, he grew darker.

Close up, Spot realized it was not Mitts, but a stranger holding a dagger. He was so startled by the transformation that he jumped backwards off the bridge. He fell. It was a long way down and the green eyes in the river swallowed him.

The water was ice cold and black. All sight and sound were extinguished except for a gentle humming. A tune he knew by now. He heard it all the time. When he was awake. When he was dreaming.

Dreaming.

He kicked for the surface of the water and awoke suddenly and completely gasping for air. He sat up. Someone nearby gasped. He instantly regretted his hasty actions. His chest seared in pain and he clutched it. Moving his arm to clutch his chest had made his arm hurt. He took a deep steadying breath and tried not to move anymore. Green eyes were peering down at him. He knew those eyes by now, though he wasn't sure why.

"Are you alright?" They asked him.

He nodded, which made his head hurt.

The green eyes stared at him disbelievingly. He was in rather a lot of pain, but he made an effort not to show it. He looked down at himself. A large amount of bandaging was wrapped around his chest, left shoulder and right arm right down to his fingertips.

"Did'ja do dis?" He asked.

"Well, I bandaged you. I hope I haven't been hurting you."

If she had, he didn't remember and so, shook his head. He looked up into those green eyes. They were wide and shining and attached to a rather pretty girl with long dark hair.

"You've been sort of in and out. I don't suppose you remember-"

Her name leapt into his mind, though if she had asked him how he had known he wouldn't have been able to tell her.

"Amy, right?"

She beamed at him, making her face rather prettier as she did so.

"So what's yours?" She asked.

"Spot Conlon."

She hesitated, tilting her head to one side. For the tiniest fraction of a second, Spot saw recognition in her eyes, but then it was gone and he wasn't sure if he really had seen it at all.

"Heard a me?"

"No, I was just thinking that Spot is an odd name."

"Dat's what dey coill me." He said with a slight shrug, sending a sharp pain through his left shoulder.

"Who does?"

"The rest a tha Brooklyn Newsies."

"You're from Brooklyn then?" Her eyes brightened. He nodded.

"Where am I now, by tha way?"

"Oh, a ranch in Richmond." She answered. "I work here." She added suddenly.

"Richmond."

She nodded.

"So you're not too far from home. Just one borough over."

He nodded and made to get up as if ready to start for home immediately.

"You shouldn't do that!" She cried. "You'll start bleeding again."

She put her hands on his arm as if to stop him, but she hadn't needed to. The slight effort had made him dizzy and his color had drained.

"You should rest still."

She didn't need to tell him twice. He lay back down again, little popping lights in front of his eyes.

"You're sweating." She said and she wet and wrung out a rag and began to gently pat his face with it.

He stared up at her. Just who in the hell was she and why was she taking care of him? Spot was not used to uncompensated kindness from strangers. He was used to having to fight for anything worth having.

"You have some pretty deep gashes. One across your chest, two on your right arm and one on your shoulder that's so deep it goes straight through. They're are pretty bad. What happened?"

He wasn't exactly sure himself. It had all happened so fast, but he told her everything he remembered. It was a chilling tale and she was a good audience. She gasped in horror and looked at him reverently when he was through like he was some sort of hero. When he was done he felt a little drained, like he could use a nap. He closed his eyes.

"I think I had a dream." He said slowly. "A dream where youse was singing."

He did not see the faint blush that tinged her cheeks.

"Yeah."

"Sing it for me again." He asked sleepily.

They spent most of the following days together. It was a little odd for him. He was used to getting his way, and being on his own. Having someone feed him and care for him was a new experience for Spot. Simply relying on someone else so intensely was foreign.

At first, he fought her a bit. When she would command him to lie down and rest, he would refuse on principle. He soon learned that she seemed to truly have his best interests at heart and that the penalty for disobeying her was usually a good spell of dizziness or, like the first time, a disastrous re-opening of his wounds. He soon gave in, deciding he was far from his element and rather removed from having to play the role of King of the Brooklyn Newsies, though he often had to resist the urge to tell her to shove it.

The barn loft became something of a home to him. She spent most of everyday with him, although she left at nights to sleep in a bed up at the house. Sometimes he would talk. Telling her about his newsies and his home in Brooklyn. She seemed genuinely interested and laughed at his stories having never lived in the city herself.

Sometimes, when he was a bit more tired, she would read to him. He would lay quietly and listen to the sound of her voice, not really listening to the story itself. There had been some story about a boy named Tom Sawyer and a fantasy about a make-believe dream world called Oz. Sometimes she would read poetry, one time, Shakespeare. All the while, she took care of him. Changing bandages and cleaning his wounds, always with the same gentle expression of kindness and concern on her face.

Today she had unwrapped the bandages on his right arm. The gashes on the outside of his forearm were healing. Though long, they were not so deep and new skin stretched over them.

"Well, you'll have a scar, but it looks much better." She told him with a smile as she dabbed at it with some foul smelling ointment she had brought with her from the house.

He had not seen the wounds yet with his own eyes and looked at them interestedly. He remembered, vividly, the knife that had done it. He saw it still, when he slept, passing so close to his face it was a wonder it had not cut him. He looked down at his hand which she had unwrapped as well. It was heavily bruised along his knuckles and two of them stood out awkwardly.

"No wonder it felt stiff." He said, holding it up to the candlelight.

He supposed he had dislocated them in the fight. He clenched his jaw tightly, shut his eyes, and taking his two middle fingers in his left hand, pulled. There were two loud popping noises and he grunted in relief. She stared at him.

"Jus' dislocated." He said with a grin at the terrified look on her face. "They'll be fine now. Leave 'em like dat though and you might not be able ta use 'em ever again."

"Done that before, have you?" She asked with a sort of incredulous grin.

"It's a pretty common fight injury." He said flexing his fingers slightly. They were painful, but movable.

"You get in lots of fights then?"

"My fair share, I guess." He answered tilting his head to the side to watch her. "That's tha way life is on tha streets."

She gave him a tremulous smile and slid around behind to him to fuss with the bandaging on his shoulder. It was the worst of his injuries. Deepest in the back with a cut in the front too. Spot sometimes imagined he could still feel the blade there, piercing his shoulder completely.

"Spot, why did those men attack you?"

He could not see her face and was glad she could not see his. His eyes darkened at the thought and the smirk that had been on his face was replaced by a deep frown. It was a while before he answered. So long, in fact, that she was beginning to think he was ignoring her question.

"I saw them kill a man." He said quietly and her fingers slipped. The roll of bandages she had been holding thudded softly to the ground.

"I dunno know who he was or who they were either. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and Brooklyn can be dangerous sometimes."

"Do you often-" She started the question before she really thought about what she was saying, but he cut her off.

"No."

She heard it in his voice. It had hardened slightly as if he were a little offended.

"We sell pape's. We steal, we lie, sometimes we soak each other a little, but we don't kill."

She hesitated. All the stories he told about his newsies made them sound a little like criminals. Lying about headlines to sell papers, bar fights, street brawls, stealing money to buy that night's dinner. She had never met anyone that had done those sort of things and it was nice to hear him make the distinction.

"At least you have some excitement in your life." She said soothingly.

"Would you coill being beaten to within an inch of your life, excitement?" He asked.

She hesitated. She had not said it to offend him further. If she was honest with herself, she was just a tiny bit afraid of this dark, handsome newsie. He was the sort of dangerous street rat that everyone always warned her about. Her brain whirled, trying to think of something to say. He turned his head over his shoulder to see her. His blue-gray eyes were bright and there was a smirk on his face. She sighed and relaxed back on her heels.

"Well, maybe." She said a little defensively.

"You must be really bored around hea, den."

She nodded defeatedly and returned her attention to his shoulder.

"I wish I could go to Brooklyn. See the city, the way you do." She said a little off-handedly. His stories did entice her so.

"Come back wit' me den." He said.

She laughed and looked up. His stormy eyes were serious and the smiled faded from her lips.

"I can't." She said dropping his gaze again.

"Why not?"

"They'd- miss me here."

He cocked his head to the side, still staring at her.

"You've been cooped up hea wit' me for the betta part of a week. Would dey?"

She felt her face warm. It was true, no one had so much as asked her why she had been spending so much of her time out of the house lately. Still, there were other reasons. Reasons she was not sure she could share with Spot Conlon.

"I- just can't." She could not meet his gaze, but felt him turn his head away from her. He did not push the issue any farther and she was grateful. She began to hum.


	5. Belonging

Chapter 4 - Belonging

Nearly three weeks passed in the same way. There had been an afternoon when two men had come into the barn without much warning and Spot had ducked and hidden. He had never told Amy about it. There had been a windy, rainy night when Amy herself had come running to the barn soaked from the rain, insisting she had come to make sure the roof didn't leak. Though, when a fresh peal of lightning and thunder had rent the air, she had thrown herself into his arms.

He had been inclined to laugh at the fact that she was scared of thunder, and berate her for throwing herself so carelessly against his tender chest, but when he had felt her shake in his arms, had said nothing and curled up to sleep next to her with an arm around her. Then came the day when he told her that he wanted to go home. She had taken the blow stoically enough.

"Well, I've fixed you up about the best I can." She shrugged, as if trying to deny herself a reason to ask him to stay.

"And I'm grateful." He said catching one of her hands in his. "I'd be dead if it weren't for youse."

He watched her go slightly red and found himself smiling. It was completely out of character for him to thank someone. Even if he was grateful, it was just something the King of the Brooklyn Newsies didn't do. Still, he found himself disarmed by this place and her smile.

"Will ya miss me?"

"Oh, like I'd miss all the whining? You big baby."

Normally, he would have soaked anyone who insulted him like that, but he found himself laughing. She had a tiny streak of attitude in her that drove him nuts. He supposed he wasn't used to people talking back to him and surprisingly enough, liked it.

"Well, I suppose you can take my horse. The nearest train station is about ten or fifteen miles northeast of here."

He nodded and stood up.

"You're leaving now?" And she leapt to her feet as well.

"Seems about time." He shrugged.

She blinked at him a few times. She was not teary, but she looked a little sad, perhaps lonely.

"Come wit' me." He said when he couldn't stand to see the look in her eyes anymore.

For one shining moment she seemed to teeter on indecision and then her face fell.

"I can't." She whispered.

"Why not?"

"I wish I could."

"Why not den?" He asked again.

She bowed her head, staring at the ground. He knew she still hadn't answered his question and it frustrated him slightly, but the look on her face was so dejected and miserable that he couldn't find it in him to tell her off. Instead he stepped closer to her and with the tips of his fingers, caught her chin and forced her to look up at him. There was a tiny hint of tears now in her wide green eyes. He wanted, more than anything, to make them shine as they always did when she smiled, but he could not. It nearly broke his heart. A heart he had never known that he had. Still, he had to be logical and level-headed.

"Ya belong hea. I understand that, but youse have'ta understand that I belong dere. Dis isn't my home."

She nodded and then in the softest whisper she spoke.

"Just don't forget me."

Spot's brows furrowed together.

"How could I?"

He bent his head down to capture her lips with his, but at the last moment seemed to be unable to face it. It was not fair of him, after all, he was going to leave her. Perhaps she sensed it too. She turned from him quickly. He thought she had finally started crying.

"Amy, I can't thank you enough." He said to her back. "Don't youse forget me either."

She did not watch him go.


	6. Mitts

Chapter 5 - Mitts

Brooklyn. The city had continued on without him after all. It was a relief to be back. It looked the same, sounded the same. It even smelled the same. He hadn't realized how much he had missed it until he had gotten home.

The walk from the train station to the pier had been a long one. He had pulled his hat low over his eyes and simply watched the city unfurl as he passed through it. The citizens were going about their daily business, the trams rushed past every now and then, and the low, constant, buzz of voices filled his ears. He soaked it all it, basking in it. His feet carried him to the pier. As usual, he didn't have to direct them.

It was mid afternoon. They were all there, laughing, smoking, swimming in the water. He had caught them between morning edition and evening edition of the papers. He couldn't have hoped for a more dramatic entrance. For a moment he stood at the end of the pier. The street was crowded and busy behind him and none of the boys took any notice of him. Then, biting his lower lip, he gave a long, low whistle. Something that sounded a little like a bird call. Every head at the other end of the pier turned in unison. Even the boys that had been swimming, stopped and treaded water to look around.

For a long while, no one spoke or even moved. Then, a short brown haired boy right at the end of the pier stood up on one of the crates he had been sitting on not moments ago, and shaded his eyes to see the lone figure at the end of the pier.

"Spot?" He called.

There was an outbreak of murmuring as the boys nearest relayed information to the boys in the back. Spot grinned and raised his head so that he brim of his hat no longer threw his face into shadow.

"Spot!" The boy said again and jumped off his crate to come down the pier towards him.

"Heya Mitts."

"Jesus, Spot. Where tha hell ya been? We thought youse was dead!" The boy asked incredulously as he stopped in front of him on the pier.

He spit in his hand and held it out to Spot, who did the same and they shook hands. Mitts did not immediately let go of his hand. Instead, he actually pulled Spot into a hug. Normally, such a show of affection would be cause for a good soaking, but Spot and the rest of the boys let it slide. Spot had, after all, been gone a while and it was well known that Spot and Mitts were close. At least as close as Spot was to any of his newsies. Spot clapped Mitts on the back and grinned at his friend.

"Not yet, Mitts." He said as the rest of his newsies crowded in to welcome him home.

It was nearing nightfall before he could get everyone to leave him alone. They had all wanted to see him, shake his hand, welcome him back and see with their own eyes that he was real. In the end, he had to tell them all off. He threatened a good soaking to anyone who didn't '_get outta hea and sell tha evenin' edition_'. He, meanwhile, had sat himself down at the end of the pier and stared out over the water from his usual spot. It was good to be home, back where he belonged, but something way in the back of his mind poked him now that he was alone. He was missing something. Perhaps a pair of wide, shining green eyes.

" 'ey Spot!" The shout, very near him, brought him back to reality with an unpleasant jolt. Mitts had taken a seat next to him on a crate perched at the end of the pier. The boy socked him playfully on the shoulder and Spot sat up and gave him a look that said quite plainly: '_don't you dare hit me again_'. The boy threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender and Spot relaxed back into his state of previous inactivity, though admittedly, now clutching his tender left shoulder.

"Sorry. So, tell me. What tha hell happened?"

When Spot said nothing he went on.

"Come on, Spot, you disappeared for t'ree weeks and youse ain't gonna tell me nothin'?"

Spot sighed and crossed his arms across his chest. Mitts lit up a cigarette, took a drag and passed it to Spot who took it and took one too, considering the boy sitting across from him. He was probably the most talented thief Spot had ever known. He was also smart, quick-witted and one of the first and most loyal newsies Spot had. He could trust Mitts.

"I got jumped." Spot said finally. He hated admitting that he had been beaten. He had lost a fight. Granted, a very one-sided fight, but he had lost nonetheless.

"Dat much we know." Mitts said.

When Spot raised a curious eyebrow Mitts explained.

"Bit found the place. Ya cane was dere and a whole lotta blood. And youse weren't. We figured there were t'ree a 'dem. Maybe four. Prolly wit' knives." And as he spoke he leaned backward toward the wall of the warehouse and hooked Spot's cane out from behind a crate and handed it back to him.

"Five." Spot said through gritted teeth as he tucked his cane away in his suspenders.

"And you survoived?!" Mitts leaned away from Spot as if awestruck. "Five guys wit' knives? I woulda been dog meat."

"Almost was." Spot sighed. "Dey got me good, Mitts. My arm, cross tha chest and right through me shoulder." And he indicated his right arm that was still bandaged and pointed a finger at his shoulder. Mitts shook his head disbelievingly.

"So who were dey?"

"No idea. Neva seen 'em before. Can't say as I'd recognize 'em again if I saw 'em either. It was dark."

"Dey were dere for a reason though. Waitin' for youse?"

Spot shook his head.

"They killed some guy. T'rew 'em off tha bridge." Mitts looked positively alarmed now. "T'rew me off too."

Mitts was silent for some time and then another question popped into his head.

"So why'd it take youse tree weeks ta get back?"

Spot hesitated.

"Dere was 'dis goil-"

"A goil?" Mitts asked in disbelief.

Spot chuckled in spite of himself.

"Fished me outta the riva, I guess, saved me life." and Spot reached over to hand Mitts back his cigarette, but Mitts looked taken aback and did not take it. He stared at Spot with a knowing look in his eyes.

"So you survoived five guys with knives, but it took youse tree weeks ta leave a goil?"

Spot nodded solemnly.

"Are youse in love Spot Conlon?"

"No." Spot said with what he thought was an nonchalant voice, still holding out Mitts' cigarette.

Mitts leaned back against a crate, staring at Spot. Suddenly, he pulled out another cigarette and lit it up, Spot kept the first, dragging slowly on it now.

"Ya didn't look at me and ya answered too quick." Mitts said finally as he exhaled smoke.

Spot glanced up at Mitts who was still staring at him. Then carefully around, scanning the docks, to make sure they were quite alone. Mitts was too damn smart for his own good.

"I dunno." He said quietly.

Mitts gave him a questioning, somewhat playful look, with his eyebrows cocked and his head tilted to one side. Spot responded with a look that wished him death. Mitts quailed underneath Spot's stormy eyes and again held up his hands in surrender.

"Alright, so you dunno. What she like?" He leaned forward expectantly. Spot couldn't help himself.

"She got this attitude that makes me just wanna- and these green eyes that are- and this hair that- and when she walks-" He stopped unable to finish any of his thoughts, but they came tumbling out as he thought them.

Mitts laughed.

"Spot. Youse in love."

Spot began to argue. He opened his mouth to say that he wasn't, realized what he had just said and closed it again. He rolled his eyes and sighed heavily instead.

"Fuck."

Mitts laughed again.

"Famous Spot Conlon. Pinin' away ova a goil."

Spot leaned towards Mitts now with a finger pointed in his direction.

"I swear ta shit, Mitts, if youse even breath a-" He started, but Mitts cut him off with a look.

"Come on, Spot, would I do dat to youse?"

Spot looked at Mitts. He had known Mitts his whole life. Or, at least as long as he could remember. He decided he knew Mitts wouldn't breathe a word, but it didn't stop him from giving Spot a little bit of hell for it.

"So does she like ya back? I mean, she'd have ta be some kinda nutcase ta-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence though. With one quick motion, something like the drawing of a sword, Spot had pulled his gold-topped cane from his suspenders and poked Mitts directly in the chest with the end of it. So hard, in fact, that Mitts over-balanced. There was a splash as Mitts fell sideways off the crate and into the water below, and then some gasping, sputtering and more splashing as Mitts surfaced a moment later. Spot leaned back against his crates and put his feet up on Mitts, now vacant, seat and pulled hard on his cigarette.

"Fuck." He said again to himself over Mitt's yells and he shook his head.

Maybe he was in love. Maybe he wasn't. The fact remained: he was here, she wasn't. It had been a wonderful three weeks, but it was just a memory now.


	7. The Usual and the Unexpected

_Chapter 6 – The Usual and the Unexpected_

Life settled back into regularity over the next week or so. If there could be any so-called 'regular' for the King of the Brooklyn Newsies. He soon discovered that, while Mitts had tried to keep things running smoothly while he had been gone, things had gotten a bit sloppy. He didn't blame Mitts, he had tried, but after all, no one was Spot Conlon.

He had to soak a couple of his boys in the first few days. Mostly, just to assert that he was still a power to be reckoned with, but also because they had gotten careless in just a few short weeks. He also discovered that his usually peaceful neighboring newsies in Queens had gotten wind up that he had been gone and had been been crossing into Brooklyn territory to sell their papers. This also had to be dealt with by the usual means, his fists. In the fight that ensued he had reopened his shoulder wound and, though he won the fight and made the Queens Newsies back off, he came back having lost a lot of blood and had to take the next day lying down.

There was also Bit. Bit was the youngest newsie Spot had. Spot, himself, had found him in an alley a little under a year ago. He had been a half-starved, clueless little kid then and Spot had taken him under his wing and taught him everything he knew. As anyone but Spot could have predicted, Bit idolized him. Spot was fond of the kid himself, but after nearly losing his hero, Bit was now following Spot around so often that Spot could barely take it.

When Spot had awoken early one morning and left his bedroom in near dark to hit the distribution center and escape Bit, only to find him waiting outside his door, he had snapped. He had yelled at Bit loud enough to wake every newsie in the warehouse and Bit had actually cried. He had cursed himself mentally the rest of the day and contrary to all his usual manners, had sought Bit out that night to apologize. Now, Bit was back to following him. A few of his older boys were inclined to laugh, including Mitts. He would have to soak them _and_ deal with Bit.

Spot had barely a waking moment to himself, which was a good thing because when he laid down to sleep at night or had a spare moment to himself his mind always wandered back to Amy. He wondered what those big green eyes were seeing; what she was doing. He wondered if he had it in him to give it all up and go back to her. He had said he belonged here, and he did, but he wanted to go back.

"Look, Spot, look! That guy has his wallet in his back pocket! An easy mark." Spot barely glanced up. He would have much rather stayed in his daydream with Amy then be here walking through the park with Bit.

"Yea, go ahead Bit." He said distractedly, but Bit didn't leave his side. He continued to jabber away.

"I bet he's got loads of money in dere! He looks real hoity-toity."

"Yea, real hoity-toity." Spot echoed, not really listening.

"He's not dressed so fancy, but that goil he's with sure is. Boy, she don't look to happy to be wit' him. Well, who'd wanna be? A rich hoity-toity like that guy, right Spot?"

"Yea, ri-"

His words died in his throat. He had glanced up again. Before, he had only noticed the man. This time he had looked at the woman and his heart had stopped. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He had been thinking of her and then there she was. Walking through the park in front of him arm-in-arm with some rich fuck. What was she doing here? She had never been to the city. She had said so herself. Why was she dressed like that? Wasn't she a maid in a country villa? How could she afford such a lavish dress? And above all, what was she doing on the arm of some hoity-toity?

"Spot?"

No, it couldn't be her. He had just wanted to see her so bad he had thought it was. But if it wasn't her, it was her twin. He knew those eyes, that mane of long dark hair, the creamy skin and red lips. It _was_ her. He sidestepped Bit off the path and behind a tree, pulling his hat down over his face as he went.

"Spot?"

"Go back to the pier, Bit."

"But-"

Spot tore his eyes away to glance down at Bit with a clenched jaw and flashing eyes that told him not to argue. Bit scampered off. Spot turned his attention back the the pair of people who had settled down on a park bench close by. They talked for a while. He seemed animated, she seemed bored. After what must have been a painfully long and awkward silence the man took out a pocket watch, glanced at it and leapt up. He bowed to her, saying something Spot missed and kissed her gloved hand. He was gone before Spot could figure out if he wanted to talk to her or soak him. Now she sat alone at her bench. Here was his chance. He sidled away, around behind her, approaching from behind the bench so she wouldn't see him. Closer in, he realized she was singing softly. He stopped to listen.

_My love for you burns deep_

_inside me, so strong_

_Embers of times we had_

_And now here I stand lost in a memory_

_I see your face and smile._

He knew the tune, but had never heard her put words to the song. So it was her. He stopped noiselessly just behind her and crouched so that his face was on a level with hers.

"Sing it for me again." He whispered in her ear. She jumped and turned to face him. For a moment, she stared at him blankly, and then she reached out a hand and touched his cheek as if testing to see if he was real.

"Ya didn't forget about me, did'ja?"

"Spot."


	8. Truth Behind Lies

Chapter 7 – Truths Behind Lies

"So. Who are youse? Really. Is ya name even Amy?" He had strode around the bench to sit next to her. "Cause ya don't look like a maid from where I'm sittin' now."

She looked wretched. Caught in her own lies. Unable to speak. For a full minute they sat in silence. Finally Spot stood up.

"Well, goodbye." He said remorselessly.

"Spot!" Her voice was anguished. It made him stop and look back.

"My name is Amy Ann Pulitzer."

His face dropped from angry to stone. It was the mask that he had trained his face to portray if he was confused or scared. He stared out at her from behind his mask.

"When you asked me if I had heard of you. I had. I didn't tell you because- I thought- I mean- I only wanted to help you." There was something pleading and honest in her voice. He wasn't sure if he trusted her, but he wanted to.

"So what else was a lie? I'm not sure I even know youse."

She sighed.

"Oh, Spot, don't." Her eyes were sad. "You spent three weeks with me. What changed just because you found out my last name?"

He stared down at her. Her eyes pleaded with him. Damn he was a sucker for those green eyes.

"So, you're the daughter of Joseph Pulitzer?" He asked slowly and evenly. "I didn't even know he had a daughter."

She looked up at Spot. There was something cold in her eyes that Spot had never seen there.

"My- half-brother, Ralph, would prefer the world continued to think that way." She said civilly, but with a burning undertone of cold anger in her voice.

"I hate them, both of them." She said suddenly and her face colored and her eyes darkened.

Spot raised his eyebrows, surprised, and sat back down.

"Well, dat makes two of us."

"My father sent me away when I was six. To live in that villa. Alone." She spat bitterly. "But now it seems he has a use for me after all."

He stared at her.

"I'm engaged." She looked down at her hands that were folded in her lap. Spot followed her gaze. A ring glittered there in the sunlight.

"To- Mr. Pocket watch?" Spot asked jerking his thumb in the direction that her male companion had left in.

"He's some high-up at the Sun. My father is hoping for some kind of political leverage over the man who owns it." She seemed to bristle with anger.

"Why not say 'no'?"

She laughed a bit coldly.

"You could still come wit' me." He said softly.

All the fight seemed to leave her. Her shoulders sagged and she leaned back against the bench.

"Nothing has changed, Spot. I still can't. I wish I could."

For a while Spot was silent, digesting all the information she had just laid on him.

"Well, Ms. Pulitzer-" He began and she turned her head toward him very fast and gave him a wild-eyed stare. "Sorry to bother you." And he stood up, tipped his hat, put his hands in his pockets and turned away.

"Spot." She called after him. He stopped but did not turn around.

"I'll be here. Everyday at 3 o'clock."

He walked on.


	9. Truth Behing Truths

_Chapter 8 – Truths Behind Truths_

He did not return to the park the following day, nor the day after that. Something in the back of his mind told him to leave her alone. She was getting married, she had her own life and he would not be able to have her in his. What was the point in tormenting himself with her green eyes when he knew they could not be his.

It had been a bright, but overcast morning, the clouds hung dead in the gray sky until noon when they broke. The rain was steady and hard and it soothed his downtrodden spirits. He stared out at it from his tiny window in his room at the warehouse. Her words kept running through his head._ 'I only wanted to help you'. 'You spent three weeks with me, what changed?'. 'I hate them'. 'I wish I could'. _

Spot had never felt this lost in his life. He was always completely sure of himself; always in control, but when it came to her he didn't know what to do. He wanted to be with her so badly it was like a constant stomach ache. He was used to getting things his way, but this time it was simply not in the cards and he had no way of stacking the deck.

At the first peel of thunder he sighed and as if following orders he pulled his hat low, tucked his cane in his suspenders and left the warehouse. His feet took him to the park. He knew she would be there sitting on a bench, alone. He watched her from under a nearby tree. There was nothing to shield her from the rain and she was soaked to the skin, but she simply sat there. After a while, she pulled her knees right up to her chest and laid her head down on them. She looked so small and pathetic that he could not bring himself to turn away. His brain told him to go home, but something else made him stay.

"Amy." He had to almost shout over the sound of the rain hitting the pavement.

"I knew you'd come." Her voice was high, stressed, and she had to shout too.

"Let's go inside somewhere."

She did not move, only hugged her knees closer.

"Ethan tried to kiss me this morning." She would not look at him.

"You're fiancée?"

"I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it, Spot. Even if I pretended it was you. I still couldn't."

A loud, nearby peel of lightning and thunder, almost at the same time, made her jump and then shudder. He stared at her.

"And if I become his wife, I'll have to- he'll want-"

This thought had not occurred to Spot and he had to close his eyes and beat back the waves of anger rising in his chest. He thrust them aside for her.

"Do ya care about dis life a yours? Live your whole life alone. You hate your family. Repulsed by ya fiancée. Why do youse stay?"

"Because I'm scared!" She screamed, looking up at him.

Her voice was out of control. Her hair was plastered to her face, her eyes swam with tears and Spot saw, for the first time, the dark outline of a bruise under her left eye. It had not been there three days ago. Spot shook his head. He didn't understand.

"When I was living here, my brother used to come into my room at night. I'd hear him coming down the corridor. He'd slam the door at the end of the hall and it would sound like far off thunder. And then he'd slam my door and he'd hit me, Spot."

She was crying in earnest now. She didn't bother to wipe the tears away. They simply rolled down her cheeks and mingled with the rain drops.

"My brother and I don't share the same mother, you see. When I was very young, I remember my father used to sit me on his lap and tell me I looked just like my mother. It made Ralph so angry and he took it out on me." She was still shouting over the sound of the rain. "My father is nearly blind and I never told him. When I was six, though, one of the servants told him and he sent me away. I hated my father, hated them both for so long. Because I still don't know what was worse. Being abused or being neglected."

He reached out a hand and laid it on her arm. For the first time in his life, Spot had nothing to say.

"I wasn't going to come out here today. But then it started thundering and I couldn't stand being in that house, in that same room. Not when it was thundering."

Her body shook. Spot realized that he was holding onto her bare arm, that she wore only a simple dress with short sleeves and that her skin was ice cold. He put his arm around her and slid closer to her on the bench in a vain attempt to transfer body heat.

"I hate this life, Spot. Take me away from it."

"Let's go den."

He stood up and offered her a hand, but when she didn't take it, he picked her up off the bench and carried her.

"Just don't let them find me." She whispered and she turned her face in towards his chest and closed her eyes.


	10. Warnings

_Chapter 9 – Warnings_

He walked through the rain carrying her in his arms. His brain felt like it had been bashed in with a blunt object and was only working at half capacity. His feet, as always, found the way. As he came to the pier, he whistled and Mitts poked his head out from the warehouse door a few moments later. She stirred in his arms, but did not wake, apparently too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

"Spot what tha hell?" Mitts asked as he came splashing up to them through the rain.

Spot silenced him with a deadly look, his eyes flashing dangerously as they narrowed. Mitts swallowed and looked down at the girl in Spot's arms.

"Should I help youse?" And he made to grab Amy's legs as if Spot was going to let her be carried like a sack of grain.

"Don't touch her." He growled and Mitts raised an eyebrow and backed away swiftly.

"Just get tha door." He said, slightly more in control of his voice.

Mitts obliged and rolled the heavy warehouse door open wide enough to let Spot, encumbered as he was, through it. The warehouse was their home. When Spot had first arrived in Brooklyn the newsies had all lived at a Lodging House. Soon afterwards, though, Spot had established himself as their leader and boys came flocking from all over.

The Lodging House had been too small. He had moved them to an abandoned warehouse on the docks. The floor of the warehouse served as a makeshift bunk room. It was littered with bunk beds, hammocks and even, in some cases, just mattresses on the ground. Most of the boys were here, inside because of the rain, and Spot met thirty or so pairs of curious and incredulous eyes as he entered. He was soaked to the bone and carrying what appeared to be an unconscious girl. He couldn't blame them for staring, but he wished they weren't.

"Fuck off." He said loudly and the boys all turned back to what they had been doing moments ago, though most of them continued to watch him surreptitiously.

It wasn't as though he had never brought a girl here before. He had certainly done that, but she usually arrived on her own two feet and Spot was usually pleased to let them see him take a woman up to his room. He headed there now. An old office in the very back of the warehouse now served as his bedroom. He laid her gently on the bed and then straightened up to face Mitts' blank stare.

"Let her sleep for now." Spot said closing the door on her. Mitts followed Spot back outside and waited until they were out of earshot of the rest of the boys before he exploded.

"What's dis about, Spot?" He asked seriously.

Spot clenched his jaw tightly. His eyes narrowed and a crease formed between his eyebrows.

"I've brought goils hea before."

"Not like dat. Youse know what I'm talkin' 'bout." Mitts said pointing a finger at Spot's closed door across the warehouse floor.

Spot was silent for a moment. He considered lying to Mitts, but he never had before and there was really no reason to.

"She needed my help and I owe her. She's tha one that saved my life."

Mitts shook his head.

"She's also the daughter of Pulitzer." He said bracing for another explosion. If he was going to tell Mitts the truth he might as well tell him the whole truth.

"What?!"

Spot nodded.

"So youse just takin' in any stray offa tha streets now?"

Spot's expression immediately hardened and Mitts knew instantly by Spot's flashing blue eyes that he had gone too far.

"She ain't a stray." He said in a deadly quiet voice. "And where would youse be right now if I hadn'ta taken youse in?"

Mitts stared at him for a long moment and then, with a sigh and a shrug that said: '_do what you want_' he turned and walked away from Spot.

She awoke to an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar bed and panicked sitting bolt upright as soon as her eyes had opened. Spot Conlon had been asleep on the floor a few feet away, but roused by her sudden movement sat up too. Instinctively, she yanked the bed covers up to her chin and stared at him. He grinned a little even in his still sleepy state.

"Hey whoa, easy dere." He said soothingly.

"Where am I?"

Spot cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows for a moment.

"Actually, youse in my bedroom."

She flushed a deep red. Something he had yet to see her do. He watched the color rise all the way from her neck to the top of her forehead. For some reason, he thought it was adorable. He stood up to hide his laughter, and reaching for his hat and cane he said a little off-handedly.

"So look, youse at tha home of mosta tha Brooklyn newsies. None a my boys will hoirt'cha. I'd soak 'em if dey did. But uh- dey ain't used to seein' goils around hea. Also, I think it might be safer if youse stayed inside today. At least don't wander far."

She raised her eyebrows. He had stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

"Unless you wanna leave. I can keep ya hidden. Only if ya want me ta though." And with that he left.

She sat there in bed for a long time. How in the world had she wound up in this situation? Waking up in the King of the Brooklyn Newsies' bed. She suddenly felt relief surge through her. If it was true, if Spot could keep her hidden then she was, in fact, free of her domineering and abusive brother and her blind, half-mad father. If he could keep her hidden.

But what if he couldn't? How powerful was he? Surely, the police would be looking for her sooner or later. How did he plan on keeping her hidden? Confined to this room? Then again, she thought wryly, her brother would much rather she didn't exist and her father would go along with whatever her '_dear brother_' decreed. Perhaps, they wouldn't look for her after all.

She threw the covers off herself almost a little angrily. She found Spot had his own bathroom in the corner, complete with wash basin and a white porcelain tub. She marveled at the tub for a second. It was not the sort of thing she expected Spot would have. Shaking it from her mind, she peered down at the clear water in the jug standing next to the basin. It looked cool and inviting and she bent over and splashed some water on her face and neck.

Checking her appearance in the mirror she noticed she looked rather a mess. She did her best to comb her hair with her fingers, but couldn't do much else. She had no make-up to hide a bruise with. She wondered what people would think of a girl with a black eye. A knock on the door interrupted her train of thought. She was suddenly frightened, but peered around the wall of the bathroom at the door. Who was it? Should she tell them to come in? Was it Spot? What if it wasn't? The door opened a bit after a minute or two and she saw a round brown eye at the crack. Upon seeing she was awake, the door opened fully and a boy walked in. He was about as tall as Spot, with big brown eyes and a friendly face. He checked on the doorstep.

"I uh- My name's Mitts."

"I'm Amy." She practically whispered.

"You found Spot's tub." He said with a grin. "A present, that was, from Governor Teddy Roosevelt. Spot brags about dat thing all tha time. He'll tell anyone dat'll listen about tha time dat Roosevelt gave him a ride in his carriage."

Mitts rolled his eyes and Amy had a strong desire to laugh. There was something about this boy. He was friendly and smiled easily. She liked him almost immediately. What she did not know was that he had tailored his personality and habits over the years to give just that impression.

"Spot said I should bring ya somethin' ta eat." And he lightly tossed a brown paper bag on a small table near the door. Suddenly ravenous, she sat down at the table, took the bag and pulled out some sort of sandwich. She unwrapped it and tore in hungrily. He sat down in a nearby chair and watched her eat with something of a grin. After she had finally slowed down he spoke up.

"So, Amy, ya can tell me. Why youse hea?"

Amy swallowed hard. She didn't have a readily apparent answer.

"Spot said he could hide me from my family."

Mitts nodded, knowingly.

"Dat much I know. He's thinkin' 'bout hidin' you at Jacky-boy's"

"Who's Jacky-boy?"

"Ah, another newsie. From Manhattan. They're old friends, him and Spot."

Questions burst into her head.

"You mean I'm not staying here? And my father's office is in Manhattan. Why would he-"

Mitts was grinning openly at her.

"Spot was right, youse got brains. Anyways, Spot thinks they'll be lookin' for youse in Richmond and in Brooklyn, where youse was last seen."

She nodded. That did make sense. If she had engineered her own escape, she certainly wouldn't have gone to Manhattan, which made it less likely that anyone that was looking for her would look there.

"If they look for me at all."

Mitts furrowed his brows, but didn't pursue it farther. Instead he leaned in across the table towards her and changed the subject.

"But, Amy, what I was really askin' was why Spot did it."

Amy shrugged and shook her head.

"Maybe he felt sorry for me?"

"For what?"

She was silent. She saw both his eyes focus on her left eye. She knew he saw the dark bruise standing out against her white shin. After a while, when it became clear she was not going to answer him, Mitts leaned back and seemed to ponder that thought.

"He felt sorry for youse. Maybe. I've known Spot for a long time. I would say dat's it, if he had a heart."

"He doesn't then?"

"Well, not about goils. He lives for dis place, his newsies. But goils dey usually come an' go."

He looked up suddenly, afraid he might have offended her.

"Not dat ya not different from all dose other goils. Spot's never done anything like dis before."

"Well, you tell me then. You've known him such a long time. What do you think?"

"He said-" Mitts hesitated thinking back to his conversation with Spot that had ended up with him being thrown off the end of the pier. "But I don't really know if he was tellin' tha truth or not."

"What did he say?"

Mitts looked at her carefully for a long time. She had the funniest feeling like he was making up his mind about her. Judging her at that very moment.

"I tell youse this, Amy. Cause ya seem like a nice goil, and smart and pretty too."

He watched her face color a bit and grinned at the effect.

"Spot's goils usually come and go. But they're not like ya. Since ya different and Spot's actin' so different, I think dat maybe tha reason is different."

He leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

"But I dunno. Spot's a creature a habit. He usually use 'em and loses 'em. So you just be careful Amy."


	11. Collection Day

_Chapter 10 – Collection Day_

Spot had purposefully stayed away from the warehouse that day. He didn't know why. She kept running though his head, but now that he could see her whenever he wanted something had changed. He wasn't sure if he would be able to hold a conversation longer than a couple of minutes with her. Then again there was a chance she had simply left. After all, it was he who had told her that she was free to.

He couldn't stay away much longer though. It was collection day after all. So, one hand in his pocket and one twirling his cane, he headed back toward the docks. A few boys found him on his way back to the warehouse, discreetly slipping him money as he nodded and gave them approving words or looks. His boys knew the rules. He slipped a few of them some of their money back if they have brought him rather a lot. These were the ones he was particularly proud of.

Entering the warehouse he was stopped by a few more boys. One of them was Bit, and he grinned at Spot as he handed him a five dollar bill. Spot raised an eyebrow.

"Not caught dis time, Bit?"

The boy grinned and shook his head. Spot fished in his pocket and gave the boy three dollars back. Then he reached out and rumpled the boy's hair affectionately.

"Good job, now beat it." He said jerking his thumb at the door behind him. After all, he couldn't show too much favoritism.

Mentally, he tracked the boys who had already found him and realized there was only one who hadn't that he was still expecting. He knew Mitts would find him eventually and he sighed knowing he had no reason not to head toward his room. Climbing the stairs, he stopped momentarily outside his door. It was his room, after all, and why should he be hesitant to go inside? He knocked anyway and opened the door slowly. His room had changed subtly and he narrowed his eyes as he looked around. She was sitting at his table absent-mindedly polishing the top of it with a wet rag, but stopped abruptly when he came in. He flashed her a charming smile as he shut the door behind him.

"Still hea are youse?"

She simply looked at him and he made his way past her toward an old chest of drawers near the back of the room. He opened the top drawer and took out a old lock box. It was small, black and rather beaten. He opened it with the key he always kept hung around his neck, counted the money he pulled from his pocket before depositing it inside, re-locking the box and putting it away again.

Turning his back on the chest of drawers he looked around the room. It seemed brighter. He turned his attention to the small window. The curtains had been drawn back and the window panes had been cleaned. He had never realized before that they had been dirty, but seeing how much light the window let in now, knew they must have been. His eyes continued to scan the room. His bed had been made, the table and chairs had been wiped down and it looked as if she had even scrubbed the floor. He shook his head.

"What are youse really? Society or a maid? Seems like maid today."

"Well, you left me here all day with nothing to do."

He grinned at her. Her attitude was back. He was glad to see a smile on her face.

"Anyways, the only women in the villa were myself and old Miss Ella, so if we wanted the place clean and hot meals to eat, I had to help out."

There was a knock on the door and Mitts came striding in. His eyes fell first on Amy, then Spot in the back of the room. It was Spot he came towards. Without a word he handed Spot rather a lot more money than he had been expecting.

"What's all dis?"

"Actually, I had tha boys toirn ova their money ta me when youse was go- when we was waitin' for youse ta come back." Mitts finished a little sheepishly. Spot grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Youse did good, Mitts, wouldn't trust anyone else but youse."

Spot handed a five dollar bill back to Mitts who thanked him and turned to leave. On his way out he nodded politely to Amy who greeted him by name. For some reason, a brutal urge to soak Mitts came rearing up in Spot's chest, but Mitts simply left the room and closed the door behind him.

"What's that for?" Came Amy's voice, breaking into Spot's thoughts.

For a wild moment, he thought maybe she had seen the dangerous look in his eye and knew he had been about to soak Mitts into oblivion. She was pointing down at his fist, though. He still had Mitt's money in his hand. He looked down at it.

"Oh, collection day." He said as he turned his back on her to re-open his lock box and calm his sudden anger.

"Collection day?" She repeated.

"Yeah. Anything more den a dollar a day and dey toirn it ova ta me. I usually let 'em keep 'bout half of it and tha rest goes in hea." He said patting the lock box and stowing it away again.

"Why?" She asked as he crossed the room to sit in the chair across from her at the table.

"Well dis way if dere's any problems we have tha money ta fix it." He said as he removed his cane from his suspenders and his hat from his head.

"Problems?"

"Well, like, 'bout a year ago, us newsies went on strike. You musta heard a dat, right?"

Amy nodded. That was, indeed, why she had known his name.

"We didn't sell any pape's for 'bout t'ree weeks and 'cause of dat money, no one went hungry."

She marveled for a moment at the incredible amount of organization skills Spot had to pull that off, not to mention power.

"What if they don't pay?"

He considered for a minute. That problem had really never come up. No one dared defy the law that Spot Conlon set down.

"Den we soak 'em. And dey get out. We're like a family. If dey don't wanna help take care of everyone else, den we don't need em hea."

Mitts' words came floating back to Amy. '_He lives for this place, his newsies_'

"So what about me?" She asked suddenly "How do I help?"

He stood up and walked around the table to stand in front of her.

"Ya ain't hea cause we need ya help. Youse hea 'cause youse needed my help."

He leaned down and placed a hand on either arm of her chair. She looked up at him. He was very close now. His blue-gray eyes looked almost concerned. For just a moment in the silence she thought he had leaned just a tiny bit closer as if to kiss her, but a second later he had straightened up.

"Youse just worry 'bout youse. I'll worry about dis place."


	12. A Hitch in the Plan

_**Chapter 11 – A Hitch in the Plan**_

The next couple of days were pleasant for Amy. Mitts introduced her to most of Spot's newsies. They were nice, if somewhat tough and rough around the edges. True to Spot's word they were not used to having a girl around the warehouse and most of them fell over each other to be of help to her.

On her second afternoon there, when she had said off-handedly to Mitts that she missed cooking, two of the boys had fashioned her a makeshift stove made out of a wire rack over a large metal barrel with a fire burning underneath. It was not exactly what she was used to, in the villa's kitchen, but it worked almost the same. When she came to think about it, really, the only difference was the shape, and the fact that a real stove burned coal, not wood. She had smiled delightedly and sent Mitts straight out to the market with a shopping list. Several of the boys clamored around Mitts as he choose who would accompany him and more helped her stock her stove with wood. She met Mitts and two of Spot's boy's on their return at the warehouse door.

"Did you get it all?" She asked enthusiastically.

Mitts had nodded proudly and Spot had sauntered up to them at this point, hands in pockets, to peer into the bags.

"Did you have enough money to pay for it all?" She had asked quietly. "I could help out."

Spot and Mitts had exchanged a look at this point, and a grin.

"What'd ya send t'ree of me best thieves out ta tha market for, if ya wanted 'em ta pay?" Spot had asked her with a smirk.

She had a slight twinge of regret, but it had been forgotten when her stew had been finished and the boys had all exclaimed over it, calling it the best meal they had ever had. Spot had sauntered away to his room at some point, but she had been too busy trying to keep several boy's fingers out of her cook pot to really notice. Evening was drawing near as she knocked on his door with a bowl of stew and a spoon. She received no answer and so, let herself in. As she shut the door behind her, his head appeared around the bathroom door.

"Somethin' smells good." He said, eyes on her bowl of stew. "I wondered if youse was gonna bring me some."

As he emerged from the bathroom she realized he had been in the middle of washing. His suspenders hung from his pants around his waist, his hair was dripping wet and he was shirtless. She could feel the color rise up her face as her eyes fell on his well muscled chest and arms. The scar running horizontally across his chest stood out and his shoulder was still bandaged.

"S'matta?" He asked playfully as he closed the distance between them.

"I- didn't realize that you-" Her words trailed off. She could not force her eyes to meet his.

"Dat I had skin? Nothin' you ain't seen before. Remember?" He said gently taking the bowl from her and setting it down on the table. He took one of her hands and brushed it lightly against the scar across his chest. She could feel her knees shaking slightly and willed them to steady, rather unsuccessfully. She knew he was smirking at her, but simply could not look into his face.

"Oh, come on, Amy. Nothin'? No snappy comeback?"

The very tips of his fingers found her chin, gently forcing her face up towards his. His other hand lightly traced down her forehead, brushing some hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear. He was so close now that drops of water from his hair were landing on her face, neck and shoulders. His eyes were almost translucently pale blue. There was a hint of laughter in them and there was, indeed, a smirk on his lips.

"Am I makin' ya noirvous?" He asked so quietly that she almost didn't hear him.

A knock on the door behind her made her practically jump out of her skin. He simply looked up, unaffected.

"Go away." He called through the door and she watched as the muscles in his chest jumped as he had shouted.

She shivered, realizing what he had said. He wanted to be alone with her a bit longer. If she was honest with herself, she wanted it too.

"Spot, it's Mitts. It's important."

He rolled his eyes and sighed, sidestepping her for the door. She collapsed into the nearest chair and distinctly heard him say:

"Dis better be damn important."

"Read tha evenin' edition?" She heard Mitts' voice and then the rustle of a paper. There was silence for a long moment and then the door opened fully.

"Get in hea." Spot said.

Mitts obeyed taking the chair opposite Amy. Spot wandered toward the bathroom, grabbed a towel and began rubbing his head with it, still holding the paper in front of him. When he had paced back over to them at the table he tossed the paper down in front of Amy. She stared at it blankly for a moment and then the headline jumped out at her.

_**PULITZER DAUGHTER MISSING**_

_**Run-away or Foul Play?**_

Amy stared down at the paper blankly. There was an article as well, but her eyes did not get six words in before they were drawn to the pictures. There was one of her father, younger than she ever remembered seeing him and next to it, her own. She felt numb, shocked. She looked up at Spot who was still toweling his hair dry, then at Mitts who was staring intently at her.

"We gotta get her outta hea." Mitts said, looking at Spot now.

Spot nodded seriously.

"Looks like I'm gonna have to coill in dat favor from Cowboy after all."


	13. Cowboy

_Chapter 12 – Cowboy_

Her world spun. She was hardly aware of the planning going on around her. She was given a change of Spot's own clothes to wear and he had gone so far as to cut her hair short with a very sharp knife. He had apologized, but she didn't have room in her mind to worry about her hair. He had made her wear his own hat and they had set out that very night. From shadows and faint noises, Amy knew there were more of Spot's boys around then met the eye, but she never saw any of them. Spot, himself, kept a rather firm grip on her elbow as they walked. Only a few things he said penetrated her mind.

"I'm takin' youse ta a friend of mine. Name's Jack Kelly. Him and his newsie's will look after youse for a while. Dey're a little soft, but good people. Ya listen ta what dey say and dey'll keep youse safe. Jus' keep ya head down and I'll bring ya back soon as it's safe ta."

It had been as Spot suspected. Though she hadn't read it, Spot filled her in that the article mentioned she had been last seen in Brooklyn and that her home in Richmond was being searched. Amy was shocked that her father had allowed the article to be printed. She was sure her brother had complained, but he had done it anyways. Didn't that point to the fact that he wanted her back, even though it meant he had to admit he had an affair and deny something to his precious son? Perhaps, all this time, she had been hating him for no reason.

Before she knew it, Spot had stopped. It was a small building with a sign that proclaimed 'Newsboy's Lodging House'. They climbed the fire escape and Spot rapped on the window. A boy with a cigar hanging from his mouth tore open the window and stuck his head out.

"Heya Spot. Long time."

"Where's Kelly?" Spot demanded of the boy.

"Hol' ya hoirses." The boy said to Spot and then turning his head, hollered over his shoulder for 'Cowboy'. A second or two later and another boy squeezed past the first to put his head out the window too.

"Brooklyn, how ya been?" He said spitting in his hand first before extending it to Spot. Spot returned the gesture hurriedly and they shook hands.

"Listen, Cowboy." Spot began and then turned and looked over both his shoulders cautiously. He gave a low whistle that sounded something like a bird call which was echoed back to him four times from four different directions. 'Cowboy' looked slightly taken aback.

"What's with all the look-outs?" The boy with the cigar questioned, but Spot waved it aside.

"You owe me one Jacky." Spot said pointing at Cowboy and Cowboy nodded in appreciation of apparent fact.

"Well, I'm coillin' it in. Youse read about tha Pulitzer goil?"

"Bes' headline we had all week." cigar-boy said.

"Well, dis is her and I'm leavin' her hea wit' youse." Spot said extending a hand out to Amy and pulling her forward toward the light coming from the window. Both boys stared at Amy for a minute. She could only assume that in the dark and Spot's clothes and hat she had looked like another boy, perhaps even Mitts.

"Youse realize dat Pulitzer is in his office everyday not five blocks from hea, right?" Cigar-boy asked incredulously.

"Which is why dey ain't gonna look hea." Spot snapped back impatiently.

Cowboy hadn't said a word since Spot had started talking and it was to him that Spot spoke now.

"Youse either in or youse out Cowboy. We're friends or we're not on dis." Spot said plainly. Jack stared at Spot for a long while. His eyes flicked towards Amy once or twice.

"We're friends, Spot."

They spit shook again. Spot turned towards Amy, opened his mouth, shut it, sighed and then said: "I'll be back to check on youse soon." And he turned to head back down the fire escape. The boys in the window had just turned their attention to Amy when Spot spoke again from the stairs.

"If I hear youse or any a ya boys mistreated her, I'll soak ya meself." And with a last long look at Amy he disappeared into the darkness.


	14. A Change of Scene

_Chapter 12 – Cowboy_

Her world spun. She was hardly aware of the planning going on around her. She was given a change of Spot's own clothes to wear and he had gone so far as to cut her hair short with a very sharp knife. He had apologized, but she didn't have room in her mind to worry about her hair. He had made her wear his own hat and they had set out that very night. From shadows and faint noises, Amy knew there were more of Spot's boys around then met the eye, but she never saw any of them. Spot, himself, kept a rather firm grip on her elbow as they walked. Only a few things he said penetrated her mind.

"I'm takin' youse ta a friend of mine. Name's Jack Kelly. Him and his newsie's will look after youse for a while. Dey're a little soft, but good people. Ya listen ta what dey say and dey'll keep youse safe. Jus' keep ya head down and I'll bring ya back soon as it's safe ta."

It had been as Spot suspected. Though she hadn't read it, Spot filled her in that the article mentioned she had been last seen in Brooklyn and that her home in Richmond was being searched. Amy was shocked that her father had allowed the article to be printed. She was sure her brother had complained, but he had done it anyways. Didn't that point to the fact that he wanted her back, even though it meant he had to admit he had an affair and deny something to his precious son? Perhaps, all this time, she had been hating him for no reason.

Before she knew it, Spot had stopped. It was a small building with a sign that proclaimed 'Newsboy's Lodging House'. They climbed the fire escape and Spot rapped on the window. A boy with a cigar hanging from his mouth tore open the window and stuck his head out.

"Heya Spot. Long time."

"Where's Kelly?" Spot demanded of the boy.

"Hol' ya hoirses." The boy said to Spot and then turning his head, hollered over his shoulder for 'Cowboy'. A second or two later and another boy squeezed past the first to put his head out the window too.

"Brooklyn, how ya been?" He said spitting in his hand first before extending it to Spot. Spot returned the gesture hurriedly and they shook hands.

"Listen, Cowboy." Spot began and then turned and looked over both his shoulders cautiously. He gave a low whistle that sounded something like a bird call which was echoed back to him four times from four different directions. 'Cowboy' looked slightly taken aback.

"What's with all the look-outs?" The boy with the cigar questioned, but Spot waved it aside.

"You owe me one Jacky." Spot said pointing at Cowboy and Cowboy nodded in appreciation of apparent fact.

"Well, I'm coillin' it in. Youse read about tha Pulitzer goil?"

"Bes' headline we had all week." cigar-boy said.

"Well, dis is her and I'm leavin' her hea wit' youse." Spot said extending a hand out to Amy and pulling her forward toward the light coming from the window. Both boys stared at Amy for a minute. She could only assume that in the dark and Spot's clothes and hat she had looked like another boy, perhaps even Mitts.

"Youse realize dat Pulitzer is in his office everyday not five blocks from hea, right?" Cigar-boy asked incredulously.

"Which is why dey ain't gonna look hea." Spot snapped back impatiently.

Cowboy hadn't said a word since Spot had started talking and it was to him that Spot spoke now.

"Youse either in or youse out Cowboy. We're friends or we're not on dis." Spot said plainly. Jack stared at Spot for a long while. His eyes flicked towards Amy once or twice.

"We're friends, Spot."

They spit shook again. Spot turned towards Amy, opened his mouth, shut it, sighed and then said: "I'll be back to check on youse soon." And he turned to head back down the fire escape. The boys in the window had just turned their attention to Amy when Spot spoke again from the stairs.

"If I hear youse or any a ya boys mistreated her, I'll soak ya meself." And with a last long look at Amy he disappeared into the darkness.


	15. New Friends

Chapter 14 – New Friends

She awoke the next morning suddenly and completely to what sounded like a herd of elephants thundering past her door. The elephants had voices though, and they laughed, called to each other, and jeered as they went past. Her brain quickly assimilating last nights events and the situation she currently found herself in, she realized the boys were up and headed out for the day. Suddenly she recognized her name in the conversation or, at least, what they were calling her now.

" 'ey Jacky! What about Shina?" It sounded like Kid Blink's voice, although she couldn't be sure.

"Ah, let her sleep for now. We'll come back and check on her lata." She heard Jack call back. As if she could sleep with the herd of stampeding elephants crashing past her door. The noise died almost as quickly as it had come, but she heard them shouting to each other from her window for a long while. When the noise had finally completely died she got out of bed and unlocked her door. Sticking her head out into the hallway, she peered around. The place seemed deserted. She left the room and peering around the corner of the bunk room, found it empty as well. She made her way down the stairs quietly and almost jumped out of her skin as an old, wrinkled man appeared at the bottom step.

"You're late! Get a move on!" He yelled up the stairs at her. She froze and the man squinted up at her.

"Who are you?" He asked finally, realizing perhaps, that she was not one of his boys, nor indeed a boy at all as she walked down the stairs towards him. She had left Spot's hat in her room and her shoulder length hair and pretty face were no longer hidden.

"I'm- uh- Shina." She said reaching the step just above where he stood. He stared, a little shortsightedly up at her for a moment.

"Well, I suppose the name fits." He said, not unkindly as he reached out a hand towards her.

"I'm Kloppman. I run this place." He considered his words as they shook hands.

"Well, I suppose the boys run this place, but I own it." He said with a laugh.

"So why ain'tcha out with them then?" He asked her.

"Oh, well they said they'd come back for me later."

Kloppman shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, come on then, I was just about to fix some breakfast. Eggs and toast maybe." And he turned his back and shuffled away, speaking the last part almost to himself.

She followed him. He had his own tiny flat on the first floor of the Lodging House. It reminded her a little bit of Spot's room, only there was a kitchen. A smile lit her face as she realized there was a stove tucked away in the corner of his room. He busied himself here, taking out a pan and eggs.

"Please, let me." She said, hurrying over to him and taking the pan from him. "I'd love to do it."

Kloppman shrugged and sat heavily in one of the chairs at the tiny table, watching her make efficient use of his kitchen. In no time flat she had whipped up eggs, toast and had found a couple of tea bags to make into strong black tea. He grunted in appreciation as she set a plate and mug in front of him.

"It's good, but don't just stand there, get some yourself." He motioned with his fork back to the pan of eggs. She jumped and set about fixing her some breakfast as well and then joined him at the table. For a while they ate in silence, then Kloppman spoke up.

"I'll tell ya, Shina, you look an awful like that girl what was in the pape's last night."

Her back stiffened. Though old, Kloppman was obviously still sharp and not, she gathered, unintelligent. Her silence seemed all the confirmation he needed.

"You ain't the first one with somethin' ta hide. You won't be the last. You make damn good breakfast. You're welcome in my kitchen anytime." He said kindly and she beamed at him.

"Shina?!" There was a slight edge to the voice that called her from upstairs. Kloppman raised his voice and shouted back. Some thundering down steps ensued and Kid Blink burst through the door to Kloppman's flat.

"Whew," He breathed. "Dere ya are. Thought youse disappeared. Spot woulda killed us."

Kloppman looked over at her sharply and she shoveled a bit more egg in her mouth to avoid looking at him.

"You holding 'er hostage back hea, Klopp?" The old man laughed.

"Jacky sent me back. Thought you might be hungry, but looks like ol' Klopp's taken care a ya." Blink said.

"Actually, she's been takin' care a me." Corrected Kloppman as he stood, rounding up the dishes and heading toward the sink.

"Well, come on." Blink said grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet.

"Where are we going?" She asked him confusedly. He simply shrugged in answer and cracking a wide grin, pulled her toward the door. She paused in the door frame, having to actually hold onto it to keep Blink from pulling her past it.

"Thank you Mr. Kloppman." She said polietly.

He chuckled and touched his hand to his forehead in a bit of a salute.

"No, I thank you." He said and Blink gave a hearty tug on her hand and he vanished from her view.


	16. Manhattan Days

_Chapter 15 – Manhattan Days_

"Hey, Blink, slow down!" She panted. He had not let go of her hand and had practically tore from the building and down the street at a full run. He looked back at her with a huge grin and obliged, slowing to a trot.

"Where are we going?" She asked again.

"Well we was goin' ta breakfast, but now I'm all outta ideas." He said cheerfully, swinging her hand in his as they walked. She stared at him, he was smiling broadly at her and something about his energy and optimism infected her and she found herself smiling back. He raised an eyebrow that was not covered with an eye patch at her.

"Ya know, youse should do dat more often, smile like dat. Ya pretty, even wit' dat shina." She found herself dropping her gaze to the ground and blushing furiously. He snickered loudly.

"Well, anyways, I dunno. Youse tell me where we should go."

She opened her mouth in surprise.

"But I've never been to Manhattan!" She protested.

"No?" He exclaimed disbelievingly. "Den youse got alot to see." And he took off running again with her panting to keep up.

Maybe because the day was bright and sunny, maybe it was because she had never been to Manhattan, or maybe it was because of Blink who stood so cheerfully at her side all day, laughing at everything and smiling down at her, but she felt happy and content.

Manhattan seemed slightly brighter and cleaner than Brooklyn, almost like there was a bit more going on. They watched an outdoor boxing match in the morning. Blink kept almost a running stream of commentary going for her with blow by blow analysis of the fight and, despite the fact that it did not seem something she would have liked, she enjoyed herself fully. When one of the boxers had been knocked flat in the fourth round, abruptly ending the fight, they moved on.

They walked down a street bordered on one side by a river, the other with big austere looking buildings, Blink had taken her hand once again and she took in the formally dressed people and small boats floating down the tiny river beside them. She drank in the late morning sun and air. The sights and the smells of the city were something altogether new to her. She felt she might be content to simply hold Blink's hand and walk along beside him for the rest of her life.

Down another street there was what seemed to be some sort of automobile parade. The machines had been popping up all over lately, but she had never seen so many of them in one place at one time. The noise was deafening and the air seemed choked with smog. Despite the fact that they could have looked all day at the incredible looking contraptions and the the people sitting in them, they passed on rather quickly.

After the noise and dust of the automobiles a walk in the park seemed quiet and peaceful. After a while Blink let go of her hand and threw himself down on the grass under the shade of a large tree. She followed suit and for a while they simply gazed out at the city. The people passing, the sounds of the wind and birds. The trolleys roared by now and again, packed with people.

"I love dis place." Blink said suddenly. "Jacky-boy wants to move way out into the west where dere's wide-open spaces and nothin' ta do, but I wouldn't give up dis place for nothin'."

Her days passed quickly in much the same manner. She usually made breakfast for Kloppman, and then without fail, one or two of the boys would show up back at the Lodging House to take her out for the day. Mush had taught her everything she needed to know about being a newsie. How to hawk 'improved headlines' and play on the sympathies of the passing people. He was rather more quiet than Blink, but endearing all the same with his big brown eyes and awkward silences.

Race had taken her to the Sheepshead racetrack. He had lost a substantial amount of money on a horse that he had a 'hot tip' on, but it was exciting all the same to be in such a large, loud crowd during such an event.

Jack had taken her to meet Medda, a wonderful vaudeville performer who crooned over Amy. Medda had made her try on several of her costumes and invited her to her next show. Then she had sat Amy down in front of her giant mirrored vanity and applied several layers of make up to hide her, now yellowing, bruise. She had also given Amy one of her own dresses because in Medda's words she 'simply could not be allowed to continue to vear those filthy men's clothes'.

It was not a costume, but it was not exactly the sort of dress Amy was used to wearing. First of all, it was pink, a rather pretty pale pink, but pink nonetheless. Second of all, it had a plunging square neckline and fit her quite tightly around the bodice. She had to admit though that it was a welcome change from Spot's dirty and baggy clothes.

Their days usually ended at Tibby's a tiny little restaurant with a big, round, kindly owner and good, but cheap food. Today was no different. Jack had escorted her to the restaurant that day with her hand on the crook of his elbow and he had made rather a job of bowing her through doors he held open for her. She felt a little silly and begged Jack to stop several times, but Jack seemed simply amused by it all. They met Blink and Mush at the restaurant doors. Upon seeing them approach, Amy saw Mush backhand Blink across the shoulder and point to them.

"Good day, chaps!" Jack called to them in a high pitched false voice.

"Where in tha woirld did youse find such a pretty goil, Cowboy? I don't think we know any a dem." Asked Blink as they stopped in front of the restaurant and he leaned down to look closely at Amy with his usual toothy grin.

"Blink it's Shina!" Said Mush, backhanding him again, clearly missing Blink's sarcasm. Blink merely rolled an eye.

"Well, what are youse doin' wit' dis hoity-toity fella?" Blink asked taking her hand in his. "Youse should come have dinna with a coupla real men."

She had just opened her mouth to tell them all to knock it off when a different voice broke in.

"Won't find any a dem in Manhattan." She knew that voice and turned to find stormy gray eyes locked upon her.

"Spot! What are you doing here?" She asked surprised and gave him a smile that he did not return.

"I tol' ya I'd come ta check on youse."

Out of her peripheral vision she saw Jack backhand Blink and jerk his head toward the restaurant. She heard the tinkle of the bell as he opened the door and the three boys went inside, leaving her with Spot. The silence stretched between them as his blue eyes appraised her.

"Any news?" She asked at last.

"None at all. I came to see if youse wanted to come back wit' me."

"But it hasn't even been a week." She said quickly.

Spot shrugged, but for some reason his brow furrowed and his eyes glinted. Amy knew she had made him mad, but she wasn't exactly sure how. Surely, the police hadn't given up on her after four days.

"What are youse wearin'?" He asked suddenly.

"Oh, Medda gave it to me. Do you like it?"

He was a long time in answering.

"I was thinkin' wit' all dat make up and dat dress, dat youse looked like a whore." He spat.

The words stung her. She knew she had made him mad, but this was just plain mean. A lump had immediately risen in her throat and she found herself unable to retort. She felt tears coming and rather than let him see her cry, she ran for it.


	17. Insults

_Chapter 16 – Insults_

Back to the Lodging House and up the stairs into the bunk room bathroom she ran. She was out of breath when she stopped to lean against one of the sinks. The constricting dress didn't seem to allow her to get enough air into her lungs and she felt light headed. For a moment she breathed deeply and looked at herself in the mirror, willing the tears back. Then, suddenly, she wet a rag with water and began to scrub at her face. Her bruise, though healing, was still painful to the touch, but she scrubbed harder, tricking herself into thinking that the pain was the reason she could not hold the tears back.

She heard footsteps on the stairs below and quickly made her way out of the bunk room and towards her own. She didn't want anyone to see her at the moment, whether it be Blink come to cheer her up or even just old Kloppman come to check on the noise. She made the quiet of her room and turned to shut and lock the door behind her, but it wouldn't close. She pushed harder at it for a second before it pushed her back. Looking down she recognized Spot's gold-topped cane stuck in the crack between door and frame. A second later, he had over-powered her, stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. With no venue of escape she turned her back and crossed her arms across her chest as if in effort to protect herself.

"Just go away, would you?"

"No." He said simply. The one word was enough to tell her than he was still mad and that his eyes would still be glinting hard.

"I'm mad dat youse wanna stay hea insteada come back ta Brooklyn wit' me." He said plainly. It surprised her. In all honestly, she had known that was what had made him mad, but she hadn't expected him to admit it so baldly.

"Oh, jealousy is it?" She spat out, still with her back turned to him. He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke it was quiet and she knew his eyes would have returned to their usual pale blue.

"Maybe."

She let out a singular, mirthless laugh. It set him off again.

"But you didn't let me finish my sentence." He growled.

"I heard all I needed to. Why do you want me back in Brooklyn so bad if all I am is a whore?" She shouted.

Suddenly, she felt a vice-like grip on her elbow and he spun her around to face him and pulled her tight into his chest. Forcedly, she was reminded of the last time he had been this close to her, when his wet hair had dripped onto her face and his blue eyes had been inches from hers, but his voice had not been this threatening or deadly quiet.

"Ya do look like a whore, but if youse let me finish, I'd a tol' ya dat youse was beautiful without all dis shit. I dunno if you've forgotten, but I haven't. Youse said youse wanted ta come wit' _me_. If youse wanna stay hea, I ain't gonna make youse come back ta Brooklyn, but I wanna know tha truth."

Like a light bulb turning on, she suddenly and completely understood the source of his anger and reasons he had followed her. And suddenly, she felt stupid and clumsy and the tears stung the lids of her eyes.

"Spot-"

She didn't get to finish her apology. Any rational thoughts she had been trying to put together in her head were obliterated completely as the feel of Spot's lips on her own broke into her consciousness. Her eyes closed of their own accord and her body floated. Her arms reached up to hold onto him as if afraid she might fall if she let go. She was aware of the steady pressure of his hands at her back, but she was beyond it. The feeling was as shocking as an electric current and at the same time as gentle as floating on a cloud.

The bang of the door broke them apart and a voice shouted.

"I saw youse run and I thought-"

Her mind was in no fit state to comprehend what was going on, but she knew the voice.

"Blink?"

She could not see him, but a moment later his silhouette vanished from the door frame without a word. Spot released her and this time it was he who turned his back leaving her completely and utterly lost.

"Go on." He said quietly.

She shook her head dazedly and a second later when she realized he couldn't see her said: "Spot- no."

He turned toward her again. He was not angry anymore, but his face was hard set; his eyes, dark.

"Go ta him. Tell him whateva youse want." He said with a tiny jerk of his head.

She shook her head again, looking into his eyes, trying to decipher something; anything from them. They were simply determined. They were once again the eyes of the fearless King of the Brooklyn Newsies. Eyes used to getting what they wanted.

"Right Now!" He shouted at her and she jumped. Unable to think logically or comprehend she took off after Blink.


	18. Adding Injury to Insults

_Chapter 17 – Adding Injury to Insult_

"Blink!"

He was walking quickly, hands deep in his pockets. At the sound of his name he stopped and turned. His face registered nothing but confusion and doubt. She reached him and stopped abruptly. She opened her mouth, but had no idea what to say. She wasn't even sure why she was here.

"What a youse doin' hea? Why ain'tcha wit' Spot?" His voice was low, but it lacked the dangerous edge that Spot's so often took.

"He- told me to leave." She answered truthfully. He stared at her for a long moment.

"Ya love him?"

She looked up into Blink's steady blue eye. It was so much like Spot's, but so different at the same time. She closed her eyes, unable, or perhaps simply, unwilling to look into his face. She knew her answer, but was terrified of it. Her mind raced back to the feel of Spot's lips on her own, the current that had run through her body and the way her mind had gone blissfully blank. She gave the tiniest of nods. If he hadn't been watching her so closely he would have missed it. Conversely, she missed the hardening of his expression, the narrowing of his eye and tightening of his fists. She felt and heard him sidestep her as opposed to saw it, because her eyes remained closed.

"Where are you going?"

When he didn't answer she sank to her knees right there on the street. Everything was simply overwhelming at the moment. Vaguely, she heard someone call her name, but she couldn't even raise her head to see who it was.

Spot had sank right down on her bed as she had left the room. Her kiss still lingered, but the blissful oblivion of it had been replaced with emptiness. He had not even realized that her presence was calming and soothing, and that when she had left, it was as if a candle had gone out. For a long time he sat there, unable to come to terms with what he had just done. The simple fact remained, however. She wanted to be here, not Brooklyn, and who was he to begrudge her a little bit of happiness in her life when she had so little to begin with?

He knew he could physically drag her back to Brooklyn, and he wanted to. For a moment there he had thought she was enjoying their kiss just as much as he had been, but he couldn't deny the way she had jumped when the door had opened. He knew it was the right thing to do, to leave her here. He just hadn't expected it to make him so miserable.

He had to get a grip on himself, however. Reaching up, he rubbed hard at his face and then the back of his neck with both hands. Tilting his head to the side he felt his neck crack twice and he took a deep breath. He hadn't realized that his neck had been stiff or his chest tight until the feelings lifted. He stood up, collected his cane, settled his hat low over his eyes and arranged his face in his usual calm, set and blank expression. He walked slowly out of her room and down the steps of the Lodging House. At the front door he stopped. He tucked his cane into his suspenders and dug his hands into his pockets. He had just taken the first step off the porch when an angry shout reached his ears.

"Youse!"

He looked around for the source of the voice. Coming up the street toward him and pointing at him in dire accusation was Kid Blink. He raised his eyebrows.

"Just who tha hell do ya think youse are?" Blink's voice was loud.

Spot was slightly taken aback. He had never seen Blink angry. He had seen him serious on occasion, but mostly, the Blink he knew was cheerful and happy. Spot's expression registered none of this though. He was practiced in the art of appearing cool and collected at all times. If nothing else, he knew that people were the most dangerous when what they were doing was unexpected. Blink had strode right up to Spot, offensively close. He stood his ground, staring up into Blink's darkened expression. He said nothing.

"She just tol' me she loves youse and youse just playin' some little game." Blink had poked him in the chest with one finger. His brain had to wrap slowly around what Blink had said.

"I know how youse treat goils. I ain't gonna let youse do it to her." His voice was deadly low now.

Spot blinked at him. What in the world had she told him? Was he supposed to lie for her? He had told her to say whatever she wanted, but he had not expected this. Was it the truth? Was it a lie? His face remained the mask of cold it always was. Perhaps it was this that set Blink off. Perhaps it was his silence. Before Spot had time to react, Blink had punched him in the face.

He reeled slightly anger rising to his aid. No one punched him and got away with it. Spot swung back. Blink was not expecting it. Maybe he thought Spot would take it as if he deserved it, or maybe he was a little surprised that he had actually punched Spot Conlon.

Their traded blows turned into a fist fight in a matter of seconds. Blink struck again, ready this time, Spot blocked and retaliated. He caught Blink a good blow to the stomach and Blink doubled over. Spot lined up an elbow to the back of Blink's head, but Blink reacted, dodging the blow and sending Spot reeling again with a crushing punch. Spot turned on his heel, gaining momentum as his punch started somewhere behind his head. It connected and Blink spat some blood out of his mouth. Spot's second punch was trapped and Blink flung him hard against brick wall of the Lodging House.

"Knock it off!"

Strong arms grabbed Blink from behind and he watched as Jack jumped at Spot and crushed him against the wall with his body weight, twisting one of his arms behind his back. Blink struggled against the hands that held him. He was able to break one of his arms free and with a roar of rage he swung wildly again at Spot. Two more hands gripped him tightly and he could do nothing more than struggle against the strength of two boys holding him back.

"Youse a fuckin' liar and youse cruel." He shouted at Spot. Unable to throw punches he hurled words.

"That's bullshit!" Spot yelled back at him and with one fluid movement he threw Jack off himself, despite the fact that Jack was much bigger than he was.

In two strides had covered the distance between himself and Blink again. Jack stepped up between the two of them, using his body to shield them from each other. Still, Spot peered over Jack's shoulder at Blink's face. His eyes were dark, narrowed and cold. His voice was out of control, something none of them had ever heard.

"I'm not a liar and youse ain't tha only one who loves her! I tol' her to be wit' youse!"

Blink swallowed. His mouth fell open a bit. Spot looked a bit more satisfied, but still incredibly angry. He thrust his chin into the air, pulled at the tails of his shirt and adjusted his suspenders. Reaching up, he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He took his eyes off Blink for the first time and they locked on something just over Blink's left shoulder. All five boys looked up to see a girl in a pink dress, standing there, pale as death, shaking from head to foot.


	19. Mitts Again

_Chapter 18 – Mitts Again_

She found herself shying away from all of the boys in the following days. There was always a slight air of forced companionship the last few times she had tried to enter the bunk room. It wasn't as though the boys disliked her. That was certainly not the case and she knew it, but their smiles were a little fixed as if they were determined to act like nothing had happened or changed. That day she had gone to Kloppman's kitchen and stayed there most of the day. She found herself cooking without really thinking about what she was doing. That was the good thing about cooking and cleaning. She had done it so often for so long that she didn't even really need to think about what she was doing. Her hands worked by themselves and her mind wandered.

" 'ey youse." The voice was familiar, but she hadn't heard it in a long while.

"Mitts!"

The short, brown haired boy stood in the doorway scratching the back of his head.

"What are you doing here?"

"Came ta see youse." He said plainly, striding toward her at the kitchen counter.

"Why?"

"Well, tell ya tha truth, Spot's been acting strange since he came hea ta see youse, looked pretty pissed when he came back. And if I'm supposed ta believe tha rumors I've been hearing, Kid Blink's been in a scrap too, 'bout tha same time Spot was hea."

She turned her attention back to the apples she had been peeling. He picked up an apple himself, found a knife and began to peel too.

"I've known Spot a long time."

She nodded.

"You said that before."

"I met him when I was six." Mitts said. Looking closely at the apple he had been peeling.

"He stole a piece of fruit from a crate outside my parent's store. An apple actually. My father caught him at it."

She grinned imagining a six year old Spot stealing an apple and being caught.

"My father made him wash all tha windows in tha store, sweep tha floors and re-stock all tha shelves inside."

She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was still staring down at the apple, but he was grinning now.

"He also made him stay for dinner." Mitts said with a nod. "And he was always welcome back if he wanted to work for some food."

She smiled indulgently, imagining Mitts' stern but kind-hearted father.

"We got along well. We were different though. He was an orphan, stealin' and scrapin' to stay alive. My parents made enough money to keep me fed and clothed with a roof ova my head."

He sighed.

"When I was eight, my parent's store burned down wit' dem inside."

She had not known. She put a hand on his arm consolingly and opened her mouth to say she was sorry, but he waved her off.

"It was a long time ago. Anyways, Spot sorta took me in. Taught me how to live on the streets. We been friends ever since."

She put down her apple and smiled at him. It was a nice story, but- "Why are you telling me this?" She asked.

He sat down in the chair closest to them. Stretching out with his hands over his head he yawned lazily.

"I remember dat day after my parent's store burned. Spot came around. I was just sitting on tha front steps. I didn't know what ta do, where ta begin." Mitts' big brown eyes were unfixed and far off. "Spot took one look up at tha ruined building and then stared me down. He said: '_If youse waiting for somethin' magic ta happen, keep sittin'. If not, betta get up_'."

She stared at him blankly.

"Seems kinda like youse just sittin' hea. Waitin' for somethin' ta happen when you know it ain't gonna unless you do somethin' about it."

She nodded slowly and then, making up her mind right then she turned and flew from the kitchen.

" 'ey!" He called after her. "Don't ever tell Spot I tol' youse. He'd soak me!"


	20. Kid Blink

_Chapter 19 – Kid Blink_

She took the steps two at a time and was out of breath when she reached the bunk room. A few heads turned her way as she wound her way to the 'crate' table she knew would be there.

" 'ey Shina." Said Racetrack amiably as she approached. He was sitting opposite the way she had come from and was the first to see her. Jack and Skittery looked up at her from her left and right. The boy sitting with his back to her was decidedly not looking at her. Though she knew he was well aware of her presence, because as the silence stretched his ears began to go redder and redder. Finally, he gave in and looked up at her.

"Alright, he's on tha roof, but don't tell him I tol' youse." Said Mush nodding towards the open window leading to the fire escape.

She smiled down at him, Jack winked at her and she headed for the window.

He was, indeed, on the roof, staring out over the city. He heard her coming up the fire escape but did not turn his head.

" 'ey Shina."

She paused halfway up the last step.

"How'd you know it was me?"

He shrugged.

"Anyone else'd sound like an elephant comin' up dose stairs. Plus, I'm gonna have ta soak Mush." He said with the faintest trace of a grin as he looked over his shoulder at her. "I heard him. Window's open."

Indeed, in the following short silence between them she heard Racetrack clearly, trying to bet Jack '_doubla or nuttin_'. Jack yelled back something to the effect of: '_we's playing cards, not t'rowin' dice_.' They both laughed and she was relieved to see he was in the mood to smile, no matter how slight and temporary it was. She crossed the roof to stand next to him at the low brick railing.

"Mitts is here." She said matter-of-factly and he nodded.

"I saw him. I've been up hea a while."

Without warning, he turned towards her and pulled her close. For a fraction of a second he hesitated, waiting to see if she would push him away. She did not. She wanted to see for herself and was sure he did too. She wanted his kiss to feel the same as Spot's. She knew it would probably be better for her if it did. Blink was so much more stable and safe than Spot. Then again, perhaps that was why it did not. Not that it was unpleasant. His lips were smooth, soft and exceedingly gentle, but her feet stayed rooted firmly to the roof. There was no electric current and when he broke away to stare at her, she knew he had felt the lack of it too. He did not let go of her though.

"Ya know, I was thinkin', while I was up hea." His eye searched hers as he spoke. "Youse never asked me ta hol' ya hand or take ya out. I did that."

"I never asked you to hit Spot in the face either."

He cracked a grin and released her, turning back to the railing.

"Yea well, he desoived it."

"Maybe." She conceded.

"Anyways, I don't blame ya. Youse can't help tha way ya feel."

"Blink?" She laid a hand on his arm. He instinctively reached down to hold her hand in his. She looked up into his lone blue eye. That eye that was so much like Spot's, but so different too. "You're a good friend. Thank you."


	21. Cinnamon and Sugar

_Chapter 20 – Cinnamon and Sugar_

" 'ey Spot!"

He had been sauntering down the pier when a voice had called to him. He had slowed his pace towards the warehouse, but did not stop walking. He was not in the mood to talk much but, after all, he was still the King of the Brooklyn Newsies and there was always business to take care of. A few seconds later Mitts had caught up to him and fell into step next to him.

"Went ova to 'Hattan today." Mitts said cheerfully. Spot did not respond. Here was a subject he did not want to discuss.

"Amy looked fine." Mitts continued. "She sent you a apple pie. I left it on the table in your room."

Spot nodded in appreciation of the news. An apple pie. As he rolled the warehouse door open, his smile vanished. He bitterly wished things had turned out differently. Taking her to Jack's had been a mistake. He knew that now. Though for some strange reason, he couldn't blame Blink, even though Blink had hit him. She was a pretty girl, after all. Anyone would want her. But there was more than just that. He thought wildly to himself as he crossed the floor. She was smart, funny, witty really, and her smile simply lit up her face and no matter how he tried to hide it, whenever she smiled, he did too. But that light had gone out now, he thought bitterly to himself as he opened his door. He had only her pie, and his eyes fell on it.

There was a fork sticking out of the top of it and a large bite missing. He assumed that Mitts couldn't help himself on the way over with it. It did look and smell wonderful, '_a little bit like her' _he thought, unable to take his eyes from it. For a moment, he grinned down at it and then grabbed the fork and took a large bite from the middle. It was like heaven. It wasn't often he got to taste something this good. The apples melted away in his mouth and left a cinnamony after taste that he wanted more of.

"Damn that goil can cook." He whispered to himself. "Wish she'd come back to me." He added in an undertone.

"Wish granted." Said a soft voice from behind him.

A gentle pressure on his right shoulder made him turn his head so fast he nearly cricked his neck. He found himself staring into those wide green eyes. The eyes he had wanted to see so badly a few seconds ago, but now, for some reason, made him slightly annoyed. Maybe it was because of what he knew she had just overheard. Maybe it was that he knew she was better off in Manhattan.

"Famous Spot Conlon, snuck up on by a girl." She sighed. "What is the world coming to? Is Brooklyn going soft?"

He chuckled, but for the first time in his entire life found he had no retort.

"What, Spot, no snappy comeback?"

He stared at her. That was just what she did to him, left his speechless. With one hand at the nape of her neck he pulled her roughly towards him and kissed her, recklessly abandoned, hopelessly in love. It was like being washed away in the sea, wave after wave crashing over him, and when he finally came up for air he could taste only cinnamon and sugar and gasp.

"Welcome home."


	22. Chapter 22

Oh shit! You found me!

Hello there, Insomniac37 here.

I guess if you're here you either just read 'The Usual and the Unexpected' or you got my little hint.

To the former group. I do hope you enjoyed it. Please, please drop me a review. I love to hear both what people liked and what people hated. Leave me you're email if you want. I truly am and insomniac and I'm always looking for someone to email or bounce story ideas off of when its 4am.

To the latter group. What can I say I guess you really get me. This is for you.

* * *

"Well if it ain't Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick."

"Heya Spot." He answered, and with a grin, spit-shook with him.

"So, uh, Jacky-boy, when did all ya newsies become goils?" Spot asked casually, his piercing blue gaze traveling slowly from one face to the next.

"I mean, I always knew Kid, hea, was one." Spot said clapping Blink on the shoulder. "Way he punches." Blink shook his head and got to his feet. Jack grinned. The girls, looked lost.

"Way I 'member it Spot, youse was bleedin' from tha mouth when I got t'rough wit' youse." Spot's eyes gleamed a bit and he pointed his gold-topped cane at Blink's nose.

"Don't youse forget, the playin' field wasn't level. I was still healin'." And Spot gripped the collar of his own shirt pulling it sideways to reveal a long jagged scar across his shoulder.

"Oh, excuses!" Blink said throwing his hands in the air. Spot looked dangerous for half a second. Then his face split into a wide grin and he spit in his hand and offered it to Blink who returned the gesture animatedly.

Jack had been watching the girls, all of whose faces had visibly relaxed as the two had shook hands and he grinned.

"Blink!" The voice was high-pitched, female and delighted. A brown-haired beauty tore past Spot and Jack to throw herself into Blink's outstretched arms. He picked her off her feet, spun once on the spot and set her back on the floor again. The girl reached up and kissed Blink on the cheek.

"You shouldn't do dat in fronta Spot, Shina! Not unless youse want him ta find out about us." Blink said grabbing the spot her lips had touched in an over-dramatic play of shock.

"Don't make me soak youse, Blink." Spot said under his breath as Amy moved over to hug Jack as well. His voice was deadly, but his lips still smiled.

"Don't even think about it Spot." Amy said turning from Jack to point a finger at him. "If I ever see you two fighting, I'll soak you both myself." She said and Blink and Spot exchanged an incredulous look. Jack pushed Spot down into his own seat and pulled up another two from a nearby table.

As their laughter died, Race spoke up.

"So, Spot, Amy. Dis hea is Autumn, Angie and Concetta." He said introducing the girls. As Jack offered Amy a seat and pushed it in for her.

"Ugh, call me Concha." Concetta sighed at once, offering her hand to Spot and Amy in turn.

"But Concetta is such a beautiful name." Race sighed. "So pretty, so Italian." He finished kissing the very tips of his fingers.

"What would you know about Italian names, Mr. Higgins?" She snapped back.

Race shrugged and scratched the back of his head.

"So what are ya doin' so far from Brooklyn, Brooklyn?" Jack asked with a nod at Spot.

"Actually, Medda invited me." Amy piped up. "I told Mitts too, he should be here somewhere."

They all looked around over their shoulders, but Spot, who had an odd knack for always knowing where Mitts was, stood up and gave a loud whistle. He had locked his eyes on the back of a brown-haired boy who was talking animatedly to a few other boys. On the sound of the whistle, Mitts had turned his head and Spot waved him over. The boy staggered a little as he walked.

"Mitts! You're drunk!" Amy said jumping to her feet at once. He attempted to hug her, but missed and over-balanced. Everyone laughed and Mitts, a huge grin on his face, took a bottle out of each of his jacket pockets and slammed them down on the table in front of Blink.


End file.
